


And Black, and Black, and Blacker Still

by Atalan



Category: Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all die alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Black, and Black, and Blacker Still

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Treat, hence the shortness. Any excuse to write about Rudolf and Death. :) Thanks to calliope85 for last-minute read-through.
> 
> Written for Beth Winter

 

 

"Mary?" he called, and his voice echoed oddly - or was it, perhaps, that it did not echo at all? For all around him was a darkness without depth, a flat blackness that pressed in on his eyes until he wondered if they might not have been stricken blind.

Had he failed, then, only crippled himself, made himself a pitiful thing for whom the rest of life would be a chain and a burden he could not shift? But no, there was no pain, and when he raised his hands, trembling, to his face, he found his features as whole as they had ever been. There was no blood - no blood on his temples, nor perhaps any blood flowing through his veins at all, for his own skin was deathly cool beneath his fingertips.

Was this death, then, this endless black and this silence all about him? If it were death, where was Mary - sweet Mary, faithful Mary, who alone of those he'd loved had sworn the oath with him, given him the promise he'd needed - promised that he would not be alone in death?

"Mary!"

Silence rolled back over his words, and he teetered, for a moment, on madness, before he heard the footsteps. Even, precise, with a click and tap of boot-heels that he could not place as either male or female. He looked about wildly but still saw nothing. The footsteps drew near, ever nearer, and fear took him, for there was something dreadful about their slow advance.

"Who's there?"

The footsteps paused, and there was a laugh - low, a man's laugh, with a roll to it that made him shiver.

"You have forgotten so soon? I am a friend, of course."

That voice - he knew that voice. He had heard it whispering all his life, a terrible voice, yet not devoid of kindness. A voice that had comforted him in despair, and offered always the escape that he had feared and craved - had urged him on to greater things while holding open the door through which he might flee in the gravest need. A friend - yes, his only friend, perhaps, his only confidante in the dark hours before dawn.

"Where is Mary?"

The footsteps resumed, coming nearer now, slower, and in his mind's eye he saw a man who walked like a cat, stalking smooth as silk through shadows, bright eyes fixed upon his own kneeling form.

"Gone ahead," replied the unseen one, "by some hours, if you recall."

Memories slashed across his mind like harsh daylight to one accustomed to shade. He saw her lying, so still and so terribly bloodied, prone upon the rich sheets, and he turned the gun over in his hand, and in his shame knew that it would yet take all his courage to follow her who had gone so trustingly ahead.

Yet when the time had come - when he had felt himself rise to his feet, had cast aside all hesitation - had they not danced?

"No," he said tremblingly, "she would not have left me. We-- we swore to go together. She swore she would be by my side - that I should not be alone!"

The footsteps were by his side, now, halting, and though he heard no sigh of breath, nor felt the warmth of a presence, nor even heard the rustle of fabric, he knew that the other stood as near to him as the breadth of a hair, looking down upon his pitiful form.

"Each man, each woman, comes to me alone," was the reply, and though there was amusement in the tone, it was not entirely cruel. "Though you died in the same heartbeat, you should still have faced this darkness without her."

He gave a low cry, of fear, of guilt, of despair.

Then hands gripped his arms, sure and strong, not gentle, but with a roughness that was comforting in that it bespoke an ease of familiarity, and he felt himself lifted to his feet.

"But I have come now to fetch you away, for I do call you friend, and even one such as I may know the bonds of affection."

He was drawn into the other's arms - not a tall man, yet one in whom vitality thrummed like rising thunder - how could he be so alive? - and his fear left him, for he knew this touch and knew these hands, knew that the one who held him did not fear the dark, and would not let him go.

 


End file.
